All Our Empty Spaces
by DC41781
Summary: Dexter and Deb try to adjust to the reality of their situation after the events of Surprise, Motherfucker!
1. Seal Our Fate

Prologue: Seal Our Fate

_Innocence is our natural state. We're all innocent first before we become the people we are. Monsters or saints; cops or killers; leaders or followers. Some keep their innocence longer, but everyone loses it eventually. The horrors of the world can't be kept at bay forever. I've tried to shield Deb from the horror of her world-namely, me-but I've failed her and I've failed Harry. She's like me now, born in blood, lost and unsure. The willful taking of life has inevitably lead to the sacrifice of innocence._

For a long time, she doesn't speak or even bother to glance in my direction. Harrison's slight snores fill in the empty space between us, creating a thick atmosphere that's heavy with and lacking in innocence. My thoughts race around in circles. Does love do nothing aside from destroy the people it touches?

I've spent my entire life running from this and now, it's right beside me in the form of my little sister, a newly minted killer of an innocent. Suddenly, I can hardly breathe, so I keep my eyes on the road, watching the streetlights blur by in a yellow haze.

Deb must notice the tension because she shoots me a look that resembles something I'd give to one of my victims just before I kill them: an inane combination of pity and disappointment. My eyes fall to the standard issue firearm that sits atop her trembling legs.

What have I done?

"Dex?" Her voice is small like a child's, fragile with innocence. It makes my chest tighten.

I don't turn my head to address her. I don't have the strength. I'm totally and utterly powerless for the first time since…my memory flashes with the sound of a baby's cry and crimson stained porcelain. Rita drowned in her own blood. I suck in a brutal breath, forcing the images away.

"Yeah?" I sound weaker in this one moment then I ever have.

"This isn't…This isn't your fault."

I laugh at her. "Yes, it is, Deb. It is and I'm sorry." Now, I do look at her. Her blue green eyes are haunted, trapped somewhere far off. She's not here with me. Not really, anyway.

"I really am." Something inside me coils, clenches and releases. It's something undefined. In deviously demented Dexter's world, it doesn't yet have a name. Is that long overdue guilt finally catching up with me?

My little sister tilts her head to the side, blatantly dissatisfied. "Stop saying that." The words are clipped and sure. She doesn't want me to blame myself for what she's become.

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't fucking change anything, Dexter." She hisses back at me, careful to keep her tone down. It's still laced with venom.

I recoil instantly. Anger, the first real emotion she's given me since we left Batista's party. I guess I should have expected it. I wonder why I didn't.

* * *

I stand beside her, holding Harrison tight against my shoulder while she unlocks the front door. The murder weapon was flung into the glove compartment but the ghost of it still makes her hands shake. Even in the hazy moonlight, I can see her uncertainty, how intensely affected she is by a silent dark passenger that's pooling beneath her skin.

A surge of helplessness slices through me. What can I do to vanquish Deb's darkness? She finally gets the door open and I follow behind her, ready for absolutely nothing. Her stance is rigid, her footsteps stutter and her fingers are clenching into and out of fists.

"You can put him up in the bedroom." She says without turning around.

I do what she tells me, sidestepping her to push into the bedroom. Gently, I put Harrison down and pull the covers over him. His breaths are soothing and for a moment, all I do is stare at him. The only good thing I've ever done; the only innocence left to preserve. I kiss him on the forehead.

"We love you, buddy. And, we'll be here no matter what."

The words give me pause. I don't know what possessed me to say them. I don't remember when I became we. It should be unnerving, shouldn't it?

* * *

In a daze, I return to the living room to find Deb sitting on the couch with her head buried in her hands. She's always been so human, feeling everything to the nth degree. I can't even fathom what this is doing to her. She's become the one thing she never wanted to be, the one thing I never wanted her to be. I close my eyes tight in response to the ache. I know I should do something, but I'm frozen. What can I even say? She won't take very kindly to a thank you, that much I'm sure of.

For a stretch of time, there's a thick silence that expands in the ocean between us and fills the room with tangible doubt. I fidget and debate, but in the end, it's the human side that claims victory.

I take the necessary steps and fall to my knees before her. Debra, the only person in the world who still loves me despite the evil I've committed in the name of a code. I've hurt her more than anybody else and still, she fights for me; kills for me. Her innocence has been stolen, she's lost and hopeless, and the love she has for me is the reason.

Yet, here she is, raising her head to fix me with a teary eyed gaze. I stare back at her, unafraid of the fractured soul that's laid bare to me. It tells me a story that I know too well. After all, it's my story, too. She'd do anything for me, I'm sure of that now. And the fact is that I'd do anything for her, just to say I still have her. She's the last person who owns me so completely. I smile at her, melancholic, and collapse forward into her arms, burying my face in her neck and feeling the tight press of her knees against my ribs.

Her fingers immediately find a home at the back of my head, where they stroke through my hair. One of those fingers squeezed the trigger. A shiver quakes across my spine.

"I'm sorry." I say it again because it's all I can do. I've never been so sorry.

Stinging tears cling to the edges of my vision and put me right back in that container. Deb haloed angelic in streetlight, delivering the killing blow to Maria LaGuerta. I remember the way I had to catch Deb in my arms before she could contaminate the body. I held her close and let her cry herself out against me. She threw a few punches that left a pain that still lingers. I don't mind; I deserve so much more than that.

"Deb." I breathe in shakily. "I love you."

A tear falls of its own accord and I look up at her, just so she can see the proof of my anguish. She cups my face with both hands the way Rita used to and dutifully wipes the tear away with the pad of her thumb.

"I love you, too, Dex."

I flash a small, desperate grin. "No one loves me like you do."

Debra's face splits wide. "No." she agrees, shaking her head. "No."

I settle back into her arms, listening to her heartbeat and basking in her gentle touch. Her warmth reassures me, keeps me grounded right here beside her, never more certain of what she means to me.

I think about Brian; about how difficult it was to take his life. My real brother, my blood, the only family I had left in the world. I killed him to save my fake sister, the one person I'd give anything for, no questions asked.

I exhale into the skin above her heart. "I killed him." I'm whispering, hopelessly afraid of shattering our tenuous peace.

"Who?" Deb's calm; she no longer fears the answers.

"Brian. It wasn't a suicide. It was me."

"Why?"

Our eyes lock and I feel peaceful, free even. "I did it to protect you." I've kept this from her for so long. There's something fulfilling about letting it out. An animal sprung from a battered cage.

"Don't you get it, Deb? He wanted me to kill you and leave with him. He could've fully understood and accepted me and I slit his throat to keep you safe."

She gnaws on her bottom lip. "He told you who he was?"

"He did. He wanted to set me free."

"From what?"

A heavy sigh burns past my teeth. "From you and Harry."

"And, you chose me." Her eyes glisten and my heart stutters. Debra.

"No one matters more than you, Deb." It's frightening how sure I am. She's all I want, all I can't live without. She keeps me real.

"Not even Hannah?"

"Not even Hannah."

That makes her smile. Hasn't she known that all along?

"Okay, I believe you."

"It's the only thing I know for sure." I place a kiss on her forehead. "No one's above you."

* * *

The next morning arrives without a hitch. The world around us still spins even if we'll never be the same. Somehow, that's comforting. And so is the slow thrum of Deb's heartbeat beneath my cheek. I'm stretched out beside her on the couch and her arms are tight around me, cradling me close. I'm safe here, undeniably. Cautious, I stroke my palm over the warm skin at Deb's shoulder, marveling that she's here, that she really isn't going anywhere.

Something unfathomable swells to life in my chest: a love so dizzying that the Need is a dull roar in comparison. Debra, Debra, Debra, she's all there is. She fills me up and makes me whole. Completely and utterly human.

"Dexter." Her fingers stroke over the crown of my head for a second before she kisses me there, feather light.

"Yeah?"

She hugs me to her and sighs. "I really need to take a shower. And you need to take Harrison home. We have to go to work soon."

Her breath catches noticeably at the word work. I swallow hard.

"All right." I say as I move up and away from her. She smiles up at me and I watch while she rises to her feet, unsteady. Soon enough, reality is going to hit us like a mac truck and I need to be there to protect her at any cost necessary.

* * *

The reporters are already crowding around by the time Angel arrives on scene. It's a blood sport, a gaggle of sharks in open water, and it disgusts Angel to no end. This isn't a game; it's his ex-wife's body in that shipping container.

As he makes his way through the throng of scandalmongers, he catches the sound of Deb's voice echoing from within. He ducks below the police line and takes long strides to the container. No amount of mental preparation could be enough for this. When the body comes into view, Angel nearly folds in on himself. Maria's slumped against the side of the container, dressed in bright pink and bloodstained purple. Her badge still hangs around her neck, glinting gold in the early morning light and bile gathers in the back of Angel's throat. The strongest woman he'd ever known reduced to an empty vessel.

"Angel." Deb's warm touch to his forearm startles him back to the outside world. He shifts his gaze to her with enormous effort.

"If you don't want to…you can stay outside or go back to the station."

He shakes his head vehemently. "No. I want to be here." It's not a request. Deb's eyes search his for a long moment and he sees the pain he's feeling reflected back at him.

"Okay, Angel."

It's then he finally notices Dexter and Masuka kneeled beside another body on the opposite side of the container.

"Who's that?"

"Hector Estrada."

Dexter cuts in. "There doesn't appear to have been a struggle. It was a standoff. He shot first and she let off a shot of her own as she was falling backward. His bullet pierced the chest cavity and hers severed the aorta. He died immediately; she bled out in a matter of minutes." His tone is all business, but Angel can see the uneasiness present in his posture.

Deb is fidgeting, too and Angel takes careful note of the look that passes between her and her brother.

"All right, Dex. You have anything to add, Masuka?"

"No, Lieutenant. It seems pretty cut and dry. We'll see what the ME has to say."

Deb nods with resolve. "I'd like this case to be closed as soon as possible. It's too hard on all of us."

Angel sees the tears in her eyes and feels his vision begin to swim. He can't be here anymore.

"I'll see you all back at the station."

* * *

Quinn shows up at the station an hour and a half after his shift was supposed to start. It doesn't even seem to matter, though, because the station is full of people who seem to be sleepwalking. What the hell happened? He gets off the elevator and takes brisk, echoing steps toward Angel's desk. The older man doesn't acknowledge his presence.

"Batista."

The Sergeant finally notices him; his eyes are hollow. Quinn feels black dread pool in his belly.

"What the fuck happened?"

"Captain LaGuerta was murdered last night."

There's a stuttering pulse at Quinn's temple. "For real?"

Angel can only nod.

"Quinn!" Deb, sounding angrier than he's ever witnessed. Uh oh. "Get in here!"

"Coming, LT." His head is pounding from all the champagne last night. The thought of confronting his quick tempered Lieutenant is making him want to throw himself out the nearest window before he can enter her office.

Despite that, he reestablishes his natural swagger on the short journey. She doesn't look amused. If it's possible, she looks even worse than Angel. There are dark bags under her eyes and her pallor is sickly. Quinn's sure that it's more than just LaGuerta's death bothering her.

"What is it, boss?"

Deb fixes him with a glare. "Don't give me that shit. Where have you been?"

He leans against the open door and plasters on a half sober smile. "I overslept. I had one too many glasses of champagne."

"Goddamnit, Quinn. Our Captain is dead and you can't even muster up the decency to give a shit."

She's sharp and her tone is tinged with disappointment. He can't stand disappointing her; it makes him feel like scum.

"Of course I fucking give a shit. God, Deb, I wasn't expecting to wake up to the fucking apocalypse."

"Regardless, you've been a liability for a while now. I'm putting you on disciplinary leave until you can manage to get your act together."

"Deb…"

"You're going into the program and you are going to go to your court ordered therapy for the shooting at the Fox Hole. I've already spoken with your Union rep."

Her eyes take on a steely quality, resembling solid emeralds. "I'm also going to need your badge and your gun."

He stares her down, trying not to give into his temperamental impulse. The click of his badge, the thud of his gun, the fire in Deb's eyes are all contributing to the blaze inside him. How dare her. He drives the toe of his boot into the front of her desk, feeling like a misbehaving child before his mother. Except that disappointing his mother never felt like this.

He watches Deb's fingers enclose around his effects and sees spots in his vision. Every fuck up was leading to this.

"That's all, Detective Quinn."

* * *

The crash of shattering glass breaks the silence that hangs over the parking garage. She pulls the lock up, wrenching open the door with the opposite hand. It's a bright cherry red BMW that glints metallic even in the moonlight; the man who owns it likes to hunt and Hannah swipes the knife from the glove box. An eight inch serrated blade, mouthwatering in its beauty. It's been a long time since she's used a knife, but she remembers the pleasure, the feeling of control, like holding death in your hands. She remembers the blood, too, an ocean of it staining a beige carpet in a dingy motel. Shaking her head clear, she emerges from the coupe, stashing the sheathed knife in her waist band and heading away in the opposite direction. She pulls her hood up and over her head to partially cover her face, knowing that at any moment, it could be plastered across every newspaper in the state. It's a quiet night, but not for long.

* * *

I don't return to the station after the crime scene in the ship yard;_ our _crime scene. Nothing makes sense anymore. I've always been so independent and now, I have to fend for two. My little sister, my guardian, my protector. I wonder how the press conference went, but I don't think I want to know. Deb can only feign the appearance of a grieving coworker for so long before the guilt starts to show. How long can I keep her safe? Eventually, somebody somewhere is going to figure out why LaGuerta and Estrada are dead together. That they both connect back to me…connect back to _us._

And I used to be such a neat monster.

* * *

Debra doesn't sleep that night. She just stares up at the ceiling, watching shadows dance. Outside, there's the sound of the ocean waves crashing onto shore. Deb focuses on that and takes a deep breath the way her therapist taught her. It works actually. Her body relaxes, but her brain is going too fast. From within the blackness of her thoughts, a gunshot echoes. It was the last sound Maria LaGuerta ever heard. Deb's face the last face she ever saw. Deb's betrayal the last betrayal she'll ever witness.

Deb squeezes her eyes shut. A betrayer: that's what she is now. That's all she'll ever be.

* * *

At the local cop bar, Angel Batista downs shot after shot after shot, desperate to rid himself of the image. Maria's eyes, glazed over with lifelessness. He recalls the shine they used to possess, the way they would sparkle in the sunlight. The glow of her smile when he called her beautiful; the glossy strands of her hair between his fingers. Somehow, the love is still there. It's burrowed in his guts, takes absolute precedence in his heart. She hurt him more times than he can count, but he's a forgiving man.

With a sad smile, he pours another shot of Cuervo Black.

As he brings it to his lips he murmurs,

"Goodbye, Maria."

* * *

_Hannah used to speak of Argentina. For her, it was about wiping the slate clean, about shedding appearances, about being free. The more I contemplate on it, the more I find that old habits are hard to shake. Argentina won't change what we are or who we are. Nobody can be saved from themselves. You can't outrun what haunts you. The wicked can't be free. Evil can't be contained._


	2. Somewhere Cold

Part One: Somewhere Cold

_Appearances are important. The mastery of pretense and deception is necessary for my survival. The lies I tell need to be convincing, especially to those I keep the closest. Deb is no longer an outsider looking in on my mask; she's right beside me, an outsider looking in on the real world that never stops long enough for us to catch our breath. The disguise of grieving coworker, for me, isn't hard to slip into. But, for Deb, it's new. She's not nearly as good at hiding in plain sight and I fear the cracks in her armor are starting to show._

* * *

It was easy. All she had to do was go for his throat when he opened the door. One slash at the carotid artery and blood was spilling like water from an open wound. With empty eyes, she watches him collapse to the carpet. The blood begins to pool outward behind him and she bites her bottom lip, entranced. After a moment, she shuts the door and rummages through his pockets, stealing his wallet and his car keys. Then, Hannah crosses the room and plops down on the nearest bed. She flips on the shitty 25 inch TV and finds herself face to face with Lieutenant Debra Morgan,

_"At approximately 11:15 on New Year's Eve, Captain Maria LaGuerta was gunned down at a nearby ship yard. It's a sad day for us all; we've lost a dear friend and an exceptional commander. And though justice has already been served, we will continue to honor her memory by being the best unit we can be…"_

Hannah chuckles to herself as she changes the station,

_"Miami Metro Captain Maria LaGuerta was found dead today alongside drug overlord Hector Estrada…"_

Hannah's eyebrows furrow. Hector Estrada was the man who murdered Dexter's mother. She swipes her tongue along her bottom lip. It couldn't be just a coincidence, could it?

She switches back to the other station and concentrates on Debra. As she answers questions for the press, her fingers drum restlessly on the edges of the podium. Her eyes don't stay in one place too long and if Hannah didn't know any better, she'd say that Debra looks downright afraid. But, afraid of what she couldn't guess. Her body language screams discomfort more than grief that much Hannah is sure of.

"She's hiding something." Hannah whispers into the silence of the room. It's something more than just Dexter's secret; something much more debilitating; something much more personal. Whatever it was, Hannah was going to find out.

* * *

Four days later...

The funeral for Captain LaGuerta is a large event that hails masses from every corner of Miami. It's the kind of thing that frightens me, being surrounded on all sides by real human beings who know which emotions to show. I've always known which emotions to fake, but sorrow is one I've never been particularly good at. Deb doesn't know the first thing about faking emotions because she's never had to. She's real, too real, and judging by the way she's clutching onto my arm, her mask is already slipping.

"Deb." I murmur as I lean down closer. "You need to relax."

She just gives a nod, but I know she understands. Appearances are important.

Harrison, who stands on my other side, bats impatiently at my leg.

"Daddy, up."

He throws up his arms and I smile at him, lifting him up without hesitation. I press him into my chest and run a gentle hand through his hair. My son is the brightest light at the end of the darkest tunnel.

Jaime taps me on the shoulder. "You guys are going to meet Angel and I at the restaurant after this, right?"

I glance back at her. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying, but somehow, I think the tears are less for LaGuerta and more for Angel.

"Yeah, we will. I think a day at the beach would be good for all of us."

The rickety descent of LaGuerta's coffin breaks the conversation and I'm a statue caught between my son and my murderous sister, watching Angel Batista nearly collapse as he drops dirt on the grave.

Is this what guilt feels like?

* * *

Tom Matthews keeps a close eye on the Morgans at the funeral. They seem shaken up and saddened and Matthews knows he could be barking up the wrong tree. Hector Estrada was an evil man and LaGuerta was a special type of idiot who didn't know when enough was undoubtedly enough. It's very easy to believe they could've killed each other, but for some reason, Matthews finds that he isn't convinced. The Morgans link back to both victims. Estrada killed Dexter's mother and LaGuerta foolishly arrested him on shoddy evidence. The connection is strange and undeniable. But, Matthews could never imagine Dexter doing something so unjust. He's known the boy all his life. And, he mentored Debra. Hell, he put her where she is. Three rungs down on the authority food chain. They wouldn't do this to him; they wouldn't make him look like a fool for trusting in their innocence. At least, he certainly hopes not.

* * *

The restaurant is closed for the day, but Angel calls in the chef and puts us at our usual table overlooking the beach. Harrison sits across the table, happily bouncing up and down in Jaime's lap. I smile at them and look over at Deb, whose cheeks are still streaked with drying tears. She's smiling, too and I feel a tingle in my veins at the sight. Beneath the table, I grasp her hand in mine. I've never been comfortable with hand holding, but I find myself craving the contact. She's really here.

Her big green eyes stare up into mine and she squeezes down on my hand, reassuring me that at least part of her is here beside me.

I love her. My entire body aches with the truth and I try with everything I am to convey it through my expression. Deb stares back at me and slowly, her sullen eyes brighten.

"Here we go. Four beers and chicken nachos." Angel puts on a grin, a mask of his own design, but it's easy to see that he's crumbling. He's worse at fitting in than Deb is.

We eat in relative silence for a while, until Deb abruptly lurches to her feet and starts to head in the direction of the beach.

"Deb, what are you doing?"

She doesn't answer and I can only sit, watching her walk away and feeling powerless for the fourth time in two weeks.

Angel clears his throat awkwardly and I turn back to him with a shrug.

"She'll be okay."

Maybe.

* * *

The rolling waves are soothing and hypnotic. She watches in a daze as they engulf each other in an endless game. A gentle breeze gives them life, but destruction gives them purpose. Eroding away every piece of civilization they touch is the mission given to them by nature.

Deb swallows and leans back on her elbows. The sand is coarse, but she doesn't mind. It serves as solid reminder that the world as it was still exists. She's the only thing that's changed. Her heart clenches. God, the pain she's caused is unbearable. Angel's losing it and she's the reason. It's horrifying in a way she's never known.

She gets so caught up in that particular thought that she barely notices when he falls to the sand beside her. He brings his knees up to his chest and removes his pitch black fedora, placing it upside down in the space between them. Together, they bask in the comfortable nature of their connection.

He's the one who breaks the silence after countless minutes.

"Dexter's worried about you."

Deb scoffs. "Yeah, well, he worries too much. I'll be all right."

"I'm worried about you, too." Angel's gentle in his statement, a loving veterinarian tending to a broken wing.

"Why? She wasn't my ex-wife."

His face clouds over with something she can't name.

"That isn't the point. Deb, you've had it rough since the promotion. And, now this shit with Maria and Hannah McKay escaping. It's bound to take it's toll."

Deb glances over at him. "It already has."

"The anti-anxiety meds. I know." Angel gives her a sympathetic smile. "I'm here for you, Deb. You can talk to me."

"It's really fucking complicated and honestly, I can't drag you into it. I can't drag anyone into it."

Angel nods. "Okay. That's okay."

For a moment, they fall back into a comfortable silence. Then, Deb has a sudden thought.

"Are you really retiring, Angel? Is this restaurant really worth it?"

He stares at her and his eyes convey his hopelessness. "Homicide is dangerous work, Deb. It takes and takes and takes and leaves nothing behind. I meant what I said. I'm burnt out."

"I understand." She puts a hand on his forearm and breathes out a sigh. "It just...it won't be the same without you."

* * *

It takes little effort to convince Jaime to stay in my apartment with Harrison tonight. For the past three nights, I've been taking him with me to Deb's place, but I need to have a private conversation with my sister that isn't in rushed, hissed tones. Thankfully, Jaime agrees. I thank her, pay her extra, and end up following Deb back to her place.

My mind is racing the whole way. Briefly, I wonder what she and Angel talked about but I dismiss just as quickly. Deb wouldn't do that to me.

We pull up to the house and she shoves her way of her car, not even bothering to check if I'm following her. To her credit, she leaves the door half cracked and I press my way in, already aggravated beyond belief.

"Deb, will you please just talk to me?"

The refrigerator light shines on her depraved countenance. She gulps down half a beer before she even comes close to answering.

"There's nothing to talk about." She says.

"Just…give me anything. I need…"

"You want something, Dexter?! How about this? I killed my fucking boss, I'm lying to my best friend and I'm the biggest fucking hypocrite on the face of the goddamn planet. Is that enough for you?!"

She's right in my face, mere inches away. I grasp her by the shoulders.

"Deb…Deb, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to say."

Her bottom lip trembles when she breathes in.

"I'll do anything." I'm rambling, desperate to get a rise out of her. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

Her teary eyes burn a hole right through me and the pain is unbearable. She falls against my shoulder limply and my arms automatically come up around her. I hold her impossibly tight, trying to meld her to me. Dearly Damaged Debra can't be without her toxic serial killer brother. That's her real tragedy.

"What am I, Dex?" The words come out on a strangled breath.

I drop my chin to her shoulder and stroke my hand along her back. There's nothing I can say that could comfort her. She's a killer, just like me. It's our shared secret, our shared truth, our shared guilt and the worst part is, I can't fix it or make it any easier for her.

"It'll be all right, Deb."

To my dismay, Harry appears in the living room, wearing an expression that bleeds regret.

He shakes his head at me. "Look what you've done." He says. "Look what _we've_ done."

I pull Deb tighter against me, mentally willing Harry to disappear.

"How are you going to live with yourself?"

His disappointment fills me up. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was never supposed to be this way.

I don't know how to live with myself, dad. I don't think I've ever really known.

* * *

Angel Batista sits at his desk in the empty station and does absolutely nothing. He stays there, just breathing. This place is the only home that's ever accepted him with open arms. It's his livelihood in every sense of the word. There's never an easy way to say goodbye, but somehow, Angel can't do it. It seemed so simple only a few days ago and now, everything's been flipped over on its head. It's impossible to imagine being happy with just a restaurant; homicide has taken his entire life and nothing will ever amend that. Really, what was the point of thinking otherwise?

* * *

He's dialed her number three times. Three times he's hung up before she could answer. Three times he's contemplated going after his Sergeant's little sister. The numbers glow blue on the keypad, mocking him with the idea of surrender. Playing with fire and getting burned is what Joey Quinn does best, after all.

"Fuck it." He mutters. Quickly, he dials the number again.

Nothing could make his life any worse. Maybe Jaime could make it better.

* * *

The moment I'm sure Deb's asleep, I decide to go back to my apartment. I can't be here anymore, looking at her and feeling this ache in my chest. It feels like a hole's been drilled through my insides and all that's left is unspeakable pain. I'm alive, but not in a good way. I drive away from her place in a daze, incapable of understanding what's going on inside me.

Harry's voice occupies my head space, but I can't decipher what he's saying. I'm sure I don't want to.

I enter my lion's den to find Jaime chatting away to someone on her cell phone. She smiles at me and I nod in greeting, silently letting her know that she's free. She steps past me on the way out the door and I know there are a thousand things she wants to ask. I wave her away impatiently, shaking my head.

I'm grateful she decides not to push it as she leaves me alone. I fall into my desk chair and cast my eyes around the room. This is the only place that houses every secret and gives no judgment. It's secure. It's mine. It's forever. I blow out a calm breath and finally notice it. A black orchid sits on my bar stool, identical to the white one that sits on my book shelf. Hannah escaped days ago, but with the turmoil around the station, Deb hasn't been able to focus her energy on it. It seems that Hannah has decided to focus her energy on us and that's incredibly unfortunate. I rise from my desk and walk toward the plant, half expecting a spray of poison. Instead, I find a note leaning against the stem.

In pink, curly handwriting, it reads,

_Wait and see –H_

* * *

_The past is a strange place. It's full of secrets and lies. It's full of missed opportunities and expectations. The past is never generous. It gives only what you want it to and never offers more. The future is a hopeful place. It's full of dreams and desires. It's full of closed doors that long to be opened. The future is always generous. It gives all it can and offers plenty more. But, in my experience, the future always turns out to be playing the cruelest of jokes. It gives all it can and laughs while it takes it all away._


	3. Judas

'Judas'

_Guilt is a beast pacing behind a locked door. It snarls and howls; it whimpers and whines. There's always desperation, a need to be acknowledged. I've learned to lock all my guilt away; I've learned how to deny its existence. But, now, it's gnawing at me, begging for release. It doesn't make sense. Why now, after all this time? Why has it suddenly decided to creep up and bite me? I think I know the answer, but I can't bear the truth of it. Guilt is an entirely different kind of monster._

* * *

Deb enters her office three hours before anybody's shift starts to find Matthews sitting in her desk chair.

"Sir." She tries to sound indifferent, but it comes out shaky.

He leans back nonchalantly, resembling a modern version of a Roman Emperor.

"Debra." The newly reinstated Deputy Chief smiles at her in a way that reminds her of her father. It absolutely drips with disappointment. He glides backward in the chair and slowly rises to his feet. Within moments, he's a breath away, imposing his power over her.

"Debra, your father was a good man. A good cop. And, you know, you're just like him. I've put all my faith in you and you've served me well."

She bows her head. "Thank you, sir."

"So, you can imagine how disappointing it would be if it turns out that I did the wrong thing."

"I'm…not sure I follow, sir."

He shoves his hands into his pockets and breathes in deep.

"Do you know who Hector Estrada was?"

Debra's heart drops to her stomach. "A Cocaine dealing crime lord?"

"That's not all. Hector Estrada was one of the three men responsible for the murder of Laura Moser."

"…Dexter's biological mother?"

He smirks like he's just learned the greatest secret. "That would be her." He turns away from her, facing the back wall and standing completely erect.

"I'm sure you know all about Maria's theory on your brother being the real Bay Harbor Butcher."

"Pardon me, sir, but where is this going?"

Matthews picks up a picture from her desk. It's her favorite shot of her and Dex; the two of them smiling big into the camera without a care in the world. She remembers that day well, remembers how safe she'd felt with his arm around her. Her big brother, her consummate protector and her oldest friend.

"This is going wherever you decide it should, Lieutenant." He puts the picture back down in a gentle manner. "…it's strange, don't you think? That Maria and Estrada would die together in a goddamn shipping container?"

Deb stays silent, terrified that if she speaks, she'll give herself away.

"Now, it's easy to say that it's all a coincidence. But, you see, Morgan, I'm a skeptic by nature. There's no such thing as coincidence."

He puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down to whisper into her ear.

"Tell your brother to watch his ass. Something might just come up to bite it."

* * *

I haven't told Deb about Hannah's message, but I did tell her about my detour to LaGuerta's house. It hasn't been touched by anybody since the murder and for that, I'm grateful. LaGuerta, like Doakes, was a loner by nature and that works well for me. I stuff the warrants into my briefcase, smiling as I do it. We're safe until Hannah returns and I already know what I'm going to do about her.

My heart lurches with the thought, but I have no other option. At that moment, I get a text from dispatch. Double murder in Hallandale Beach; it's just another day in the neighborhood.

* * *

The flashbulbs go off from just inside the house, the most morbid kind of paparazzi. Two bodies, one male and female, both naked and laid out on the living room floor like a new exhibit. Blood is everywhere; a trail of it leads from the bedroom to the living room, mapping out the movement of the corpses. Deb swipes a hand across her mouth and comes to stand beside Dexter.

"Jesus." She says.

"More like Judas." He replies as he points his index finger in the direction of the male vic.

Scratched into the man's cheek is the word 'Judas' and Deb's entire body stiffens at the sight.

"It looks like it was carved with a letter opener." Dexter goes on, oblivious to her discomfort.

Masuka, who stands on the opposite end of the bodies, nods. "Murder weapon was a blunt instrument; something like a baseball bat."

"This blood trail suggests that the victims were dragged into this position from the bedroom and the blood stains on the bed suggest that the murder was committed there."

"Infidelity." Deb cuts in.

"That'd be my guess, LT."

She walks to the mantle, studying the photographs that line it. The man in all the photos isn't the dead man on the ground.

"Cheating wife."

That's when Ramos parades in wearing a big smile.

"Lieutenant."

Deb glances over at him. "What is it?"

"Neighbor says she saw the husband fleeing in his car at 3:25 this morning. She says he was covered in blood."

"Make? Model?"

"Champagne Toyota Corolla."

"We have a name for the suspect?"

Ramos flips open his notepad. "Patrick Lewis."

"Good. Put out a BOLO. Find this motherfucker."

* * *

Deb and I stop for lunch at our favorite barbeque place. We order two pork sandwiches and then, we sit watching each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.

It ends up being me. "Did you get the disc?" I ask.

Deb leans down beneath the table to dig into her purse and comes back up holding the evidence of her involvement in my secret world.

She drops it on the table, where it resounds with an ominous click.

"What do we do with it?"

"We destroy it." I clench my jaw as I place my index finger on the case and slide it over to my end of the table. I tap out a nervous rhythm on the plastic surface. "Did anybody see you take it?"

Deb shakes her head. "I don't think so." She pauses and her eyes shift away from me to study the restaurant's patio. It's dotted with normal people doing normal things, enjoying lunch, enjoying life. And, there's us, the killers in the crowd, working to cover our asses.

"Look, Dex…you need to be careful."

"Careful of what?"

She leans forward across the table, wearing an anxious expression that I've seen too often lately.

"When you…do what you do…watch yourself. Matthews is suspicious."

"What? How?"

"He knows it's not a coincidence that LaGuerta and Estrada are dead together…in a shipping container." She raises her eyebrows and suddenly, I'm cold inside.

"I'm the common denominator." I breathe out slowly. "Does he suspect you?"

"Not at the moment. But, Dex, if he starts…"

"Deb, relax. It'll be okay. He's got nothing on us. There's nothing at the crime scene to suggest any foul play. I made sure of it. He's blowing smoke."

She doesn't look even close to convinced. I've said this exact thing to her before and it certainly didn't end well that time.

My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. Behind them, there's gunfire and blood and the whirring of a chainsaw. An extraordinary mother bled out in a bathtub, unable to escape her husband's evil. Two good cops are dead because they decided to follow their instincts; dead because of me.

The Code offers no help in the department of chain reactions. There's no backup plan for when the disease starts to spread.

Yet, I still manage to give Deb my best attempt at reassurance.

"You have to trust me. Nothing's going to happen."

Her face hardens. "What about Hannah?"

"What about her?"

"I imagine she didn't break out of jail so she could take a trip to fucking Aruba."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, she's probably on the goddamn warpath, asshole. She's coming for us."

I swipe my fingers across my lips. I was never one for nervous habits, but Deb brings them out in me.

"If it happens, I'll take care of it." I swallow my unwillingness. "I swear."

* * *

Jackson Hoyt had five hundred dollars in his wallet and Hannah finds herself thanking God, something she hasn't done since she was in the sixth grade and her father left home for a month. That was also the year she met Wayne, the cute boy who went to the high school two blocks from her house. He was fifteen and she remembers his pretty smile, his magnetic charm. For three years, they were mere acquaintances until Wayne showed up outside her bedroom window one night, asking her to run away with him.

Hannah tightens her grip on the steering wheel, desperate for escape once again.

Wayne's voice infiltrates her empty spaces, anyway.

_ "Every day is like Christmas day; an unwrapped present."_

She recalls the crinkling of the fortune when he crushed it in his fist. That's when Dexter's voice decides to break in, too.

"_Maybe we can start a new tradition….this year and the year after that and the year after that."_

_ "You poisoned Debra."_

_ "I can never trust you…"_

Hannah beats the wheel with the palm of her hand.

"Fuck." She hits it again and again, until her nerves explode in pain.

Dexter was going to pay; one way or another, he was going to pay.

* * *

Deb and I return to the station to find Ramos waiting for us.

"We got Lewis, LT. He's in interrogation room 2." He says to Deb. His tone is calm.

"All right."

She walks away with her hands in her pockets and judging from her posture, she's spiraling on the inside. Guilt and fear are weighing down on my little sister. And, there's nothing I can do.

* * *

"Mr. Lewis, I'm Lieutenant Debra Morgan. Do you know why you're here?"

She stands behind the chair, her hands in her pockets, her shoulders stiff, and her head high.

"They told me my wife was dead. They said I killed her." Lewis looks like hell; his sweater vest disheveled and dirt stained and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his face.

"And, did you, Mr. Lewis? Did you kill your wife and her lover?"

He smiles as she finally falls into the chair across from him. She flips open his file, skimming through his neighbors' statements.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

The Lieutenant laughs out loud. It's cold and humorless.

"Yeah, I'm sure you don't." She turns the file around so he can read the words on the page.

"That's funny, Mr. Lewis, because your neighbor Rosa seems to think that she saw you speeding away from the crime scene at 3 in the morning, covered in what looked like blood and carrying a baseball bat."

"She didn't see shit." He licks his bottom lip. "No one saw anything."

"Saw what, Mr. Lewis?"

Silence permeates the room for a long minute. Then, Debra lets go.

"You know, Mr. Lewis, they say confession is good for the soul." The word 'Judas' burns bright in her mind, blinding her to everything else.

He smirks wide. "I hope not. I hope they're both rotting in hell."

"Did you send them there, Mr. Lewis?"

He bows his head low and wrings his hands on the tabletop. "Traitor." It's a heated whisper. Deb barely catches it.

"Who?"

"Billy. That stupid fuck." Lewis raises his head. Tears shimmer in his eyes. "And fucking Kelly. Goddamnit!" He slams his hand into the table. The sound bounces off the walls and back toward them. Deb stays still, breathless.

The tears begin to fall one by one. Deb watches mesmerized, knowing without a doubt that this is what remorse looks like. She wishes she could show her own.

_I'm so sorry, Maria. _She wants to scream it. She wants the world to know her truth, wants the people in the station to see it and understand it. She'd do anything to take it back.

"I did it, all right? I bashed their fucking brains in and you know what? I hate myself for it. Fucking bastards hurt me and I'm the one who's sorry."

Deb pushes herself backward from the table, focusing on the screeching noise the chair legs make as they scrape along the marble tile.

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Lewis." She gives him a pitying smile and turns away, walking out of the room without looking back.

* * *

"Hi, I'm Joey…and I'm an alcoholic. I've done some bad things. Actually, a lot of bad things. Alcohol seems to take the edge off, you know? It's hard to remember what a fuck up you are when you're lights out drunk. There's a lot of anger and a shitload of hatred. Hatred of myself and all the shit I've done; all the shit I always seem to get away with. And, suddenly, I've stopped getting away with it and it _hurts_. It hurts to see my friends look at me like I'm worthless and tell me to get it together. I want to get it together. I really do."

* * *

We leave Deb's rental at the station and take my car. She's shaken up from the interview with Lewis, so I stay silent. The atmosphere is thick and after a few minutes, Deb reaches her hand across the console and puts it over mine. Her fingertips wrap around and press into my palm and I want to scream. Every moment I spend with Deb hurts and I can't stand it.

"Dexter, I want you to take me to the cemetery."

The world outside seems to pause in that breath. Everything stops. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"Why?"

"You know why."

* * *

This is strange. I've never done it. I've never felt the need to apologize to a gravestone, but I'd do anything to help Deb, so here I am, walking through rows of dead cops and dead members of their families. Rita's grave is here, too and it takes all of my energy not to collapse with the thought.

We come to LaGuerta's stone and Deb falls to her knees, resting her hand on the slope of the slab and running it along the rounded edge.

Her voice comes through on a cloud of misery.

"I'm sorry." She says. "I'm so sorry, Maria."

Deb bows her head and I can see the glimmer of a tear in the dying sunlight. I follow it down her face and to the grass. A burning sensation blooms in my chest. I've never felt it before, so I can't identify it. Whatever it is, I don't like it.

By the time I return to the real world, Deb's on her feet and studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't put together. And, of course she can't; I'm missing too many pieces.

"Are you going to be all right?" I ask.

She nods at me, but I can see her uncertainty. I'm the only person she's never been able to hide from. As we walk side by side back through the columns of the dead, I raise my eyes to the sky, wondering if the unlucky few are wishing hell upon me.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

_We all want forgiveness. Confession is good for the soul and God forgives. You will be absolved of your sins if you are truly sorry. And, I am. I'm sorry for everything I've done to those closest to me. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused my sister. We all want forgiveness, but it doesn't change anything. The dead can't be brought back to life. I'm the only person I can't run from. And, I'll never forgive myself._


End file.
